


take your time

by romanoff



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Domestic Avengers, Fluff, He just doesn't realise it, M/M, Panic Attacks, Tony is happy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-08
Updated: 2015-07-08
Packaged: 2018-04-08 09:10:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4299030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/romanoff/pseuds/romanoff
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Something I wrote awhile back for the prompt 'one day Tony emerges from his workshop and realises, for the first time in his life, he’s surrounded by people. By friends who like him for him rather than his money. He’s only really had Rhodey and Pepper (and JARVIS and the bots) before. Cue panic.'</p>
            </blockquote>





	take your time

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt given by yee-jun.tumblr.com

Tony feels stiff. No, not like that, just – tired. His back aches. Staying in the same position for too long is fucking deadly for a man of his age. Christ. A man of his age. When did he get old enough to say that?

He spins in his chair, sighing. What time is it? Eight? Morning or night? Night. Brilliant. There’s still a few hours left before spending the whole day in the workshop becomes socially inadequate.

Which he is, obviously. Completely and utterly. Never quite something he learnt how to do. Still needs Jarvis to prompt him when he’s being strange. Or rude. Mostly rude. Turns out, for most people, strange and rude are actually synonymous.

So he stretches. “J,” he yawns “who’s up there?”

“The Captain and Ms Romanoff are currently hosting a dinner. I believe Doctor Banner and Mr Barton will be joining shortly. I am sure you will be welcome.”

Tony sighs, flicking through the hologram. He has to finish this by when? Next week, maybe. Next week. Well, next week can wait. Tony’s starving.

He’s whistling as he makes his way to the elevator, up the stairs. Fuck, he hopes Natasha hasn’t cooked. Not that he’ll ever say that to her face, it’s just she’s terrible. Soviet Russia, apparently, sucks the fun out of food.

He’s still whistling when he strides onto the open floor. “Oh my God,” Steve says, dryly “you’re alive.”

“That’s funny, Steve, don’t quit the day job.” He slumps into a seat, slings his feet onto the table, helping himself to a bread roll. “Are we eating, or – ”

“Get your feet off the table.” Bruce says, pushing them to the ground. “It’s unhygienic.”

“Bread?” Tony says, holding it under his nose. Bruce bats him away, drags over salad, and starts picking morosely at some leaves.

“I’m okay.” He says, eyeing a humous dip. “Just me and my,” he looks at the bowl “salad.”

“Use a fork.” Tony says “That’s unhygienic.”

“What did you say we were eating?” Clint says, sliding down next to Steve.

“I didn’t.” Steve replies, and then, lower. “Natasha’s cooking.”

Clint closes his eyes in resolute acceptance. “Say your prayers now, boys.”

“She insisted.”

“Why?” Bruce hisses “Why didn’t you stop her?”

“How exactly do you see that conversation going?”

“Well I think it’s admirable.” Tony says loudly, kicking Steve under the table. “Right, Nat?” He calls as she pushes open the door carrying something large, square, and steaming. 

“Don’t call me that.” She says smoothly, laying a dish on the table. “Enjoy.”

Tony eyes it warily, and then stares at Steve. He stares back, uneasy. And almost imperceptibly shakes his head.

“Go on.” Natasha prompts. “Take some. I put a lot of work into that.”

“What, uh.” Steve clears his throat. “What is it?”

Natasha tilts her head, lips slightly parted, eyes dark. “Why don’t you try some and find out?”

Bruce swallows. “I think – ” he looks at each of them meaningfully “what Steve means it thank you, for, for the effort.”

“That’s very nice of you, Bruce.” Natasha says sweetly. “Why don’t you boys try some?”

She sits back in her chair, surveys the scene from her spot at the head of the table. Her smile is too large. Natasha has never, ever, in a thousand years, smiled like that. Ever.

“She knows.” Clint says, out the side of his mouth.

“Know’s what?” Natasha asks, sharply.

“Nothing.” Clint says quickly. “It’s – yeah. Wow.” He takes a flat spoon and carves out a piece of, what looks like, some kind of meat pie. It’s grey and brown inside. What might be mashed potato on top. “Look delicious.” He says dully.

Natasha nods. “It does, doesn’t it?” She says. “Remember, Clint, I worked very hard on it.”

“I’ll bet.” He says, weakly. “You guys better serve up, or I’ll – ” Clint swallows “I’ll eat it all.”

Tony pushes his chair back, the legs scraping against the tiled floor.

He blinks.

Where the hell is he? What the hell is this? He stares at the pie on the table. Then to Natasha’s face. Natasha Romanoff made a pie. Natasha Romanoff made a pie? And, and Captain America is sitting at his table. Captain America is sitting opposite him, giving him the eyes, because none of them want to eat a pie Natasha Romanoff, world renowned assassin, has made.

What the fu –

“Excuse me.” Tony blurts, stumbling to his feet. “I have – kitchen.”

Natasha blinks. “Tony – ”

“Kitchen.” He breathes “I just have to, to – ”

He slams the door behind him, braces his hands on the wood. Breathe, breathe, you’re fine. Why are you panicking? Why are you panicking, there’s nothing to –

He slips where the sweat from his palms slides down the door. He catches himself on a marble counter, hand clutching his chest. Relax, just relax, and breathe, breathe, breathe.

A knock on the door. “Tony?” Someone calls. “You alright in there?”

“I’m,” Tony swallows “I’m fine! I’m fine, just – ” his voice is high and reedy “don’t, don’t come in, don’t – ” crashes back into the island and knocks over the wine glasses, sending them cascading to the floor “don’t come in!” He pleads “Just – it’s fine, I – ”

The door opens, and Steve stands there, carefully closing it behind him. “What are you – ”

“It’s fine!” Tony bites out, kneeling, trying to scrape the glass back together. “It’s fine, it’s fine, it’s fine. I’ll just,” he laughs “had an accident, so – I’ll fix it, you, you go and deal with Nat – Natasha, I mean, you – ”

“Don’t do that.” Steve says gently. “Not with your bare hands, Tony – Tony! Look at what you’ve done. Stop that, stop.” Steve pulls Tony’s hands away from the ground, stands, drags him with him. “You’re bleeding.” He states.

Tony swallows. “I dropped the glasses.” He says.

“I see that.” Steve says, softly. “Any particular reason?”

Tony blinks, wriggles free from Steve’s grip. He goes to wipe the sweat from his palm, only to realise it’s blood, and he’s aggravated the cuts. He hisses.

“Relax.” Steve says “Breathe.”

“I am breathing.” Tony croaks, shaky. “Have to breathe to live, genius.”

“Yeah you do.” Steve sighs. “Of course you do.” He pauses. “Was it – was it something we said? I didn’t mean – ”

“What?” Tony says, frowning. “Oh God, was it that obvious? Fuck, I’m sorry, I – didn’t mean to, to make a scene. You should go.” Tony moves to the sink, turns it on using his wrists, and runs his bloody hands under the cold water. “That’s not the – yeah it was obvious." Steve admits "We’ve all been there. No one’s judging.”

“It wasn’t you.” Tony mutters, wincing at the pain, still feeling jittery. “It was nothing you guys did, I just – ” Tony sighs. “Have you ever been scared of commitment?”

“Uh?”

“To someone. Like, with Pepper. I loved her, but… I didn’t think we could last. And I was too scared to commit. So we broke apart. Like that. And when you’re talking to that person, all you can think is, I love you, I really fucking love you, but I couldn’t bear to lose you. And probability tells me we’re going to break up eventually so… better just rip off the bandaid.”

Steve blinks. “I understand. I think.”

“Right. So – ” Tony pulls his hands out from under the water, shakes them dry. “I’m sitting at that table, and I’m kind of having that moment. Where I think – ” Tony’s voice cracks, and he clears his throat. “I mean. I was sitting opposite Captain America. Do you know what that’s like?”

“I hear he can be an ass.”

“Absolutely.” Tony agrees, and he gives a shaky laugh. “But I mean, realistically. I was eating a sit-down dinner with Captain America. That’s, I mean, an assassin cooked my food, and a man who turns into a monster when he’s angry was sitting beside me. And it’s – you wanted to be there, you wanted – ”

“I… don’t quite understand.”

“It’s strange, for me.” Tony swallows. “It’s strange. To have, to have dinners. With people. Who…”

“Who?”

“Like me? No, fuck that sounds awful. But I mean that the whole concept – ”

“Of dinner.”

“Right. The whole concept of a sit-down dinner kinda goes over my head. I’ve never – I mean, Rhodey and Pepper, but who has a dinner with their friends – ”

“We do?”

“Clearly. But it’s more – ” Tony flaps his hands, not able to find the words. “Whatever.”

Steve tilts his head. “You know it’s – you know we – it’s nice, to have you with us, sometimes.”

A pause. “Thanks.”

“And we know you’re busy. You work harder than any of us. But still. You know. It’s nice.”

Tony nods, slowly. “It’s… nice to be here.”

“Good.” Steve says.

“Good.” Tony agrees.

They stand there. Tony’s hands are still bloody.

Steve steps closer, takes Tony’s wrist in his. Examines his palms with gentle fingers. “You need bandages.” He says, lightly.

Tony swallows, throat thick. “Okay.” He agrees.

Steve looks at him, but he doesn’t let go. “Your eyes – ”

“Yeah?”

Steve blinks. “They’re very – ”

“I don’t want to interrupt and I’m really sorry, it looked like you guys were having an, an amazing moment, but if I don’t get to eat something I’m going to get so angry you have no idea.” Bruce rifles through a cereal box. “I’m really sorry.” He says, mouth full, flakes falling down his shirt. He swallows “I said I would see what’s taking so long. If anyone asks, Tony had a mild seizure and you needed my medical advice, okay?”

Steve sighs, stepping away. “His Clint still out there?”

“Last man standing.”

“Someone should help him.” Steve says.

“True.” Tony coughs, pointedly. “Or we could order pizza. Pizza?” He points at Steve “Pizza?” He asks Bruce.

“Pizza.” They agree.

After, when Natasha has stolen a box of pizza and is eating regally on her throne of pillows, resting her feet in Clint’s lap, Steve rests his head on Tony’s shoulder. Bruce sighs, long-suffering, and turns on the TV.

**Author's Note:**

> Any comments you have are loved!! I know it's short but literally anything would be amazing!


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